


Cause I Remember the Rush

by SharkEnthusiast



Category: The Umbrella Academy (Comics), The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: !!!!!!!!!!!!!, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Bisexual Allison Hargreeves, F/M, Gen, Good Brother Ben Hargreeves, Good Brother Diego Hargreeves, Good Brother Klaus Hargreeves, Good Brother Luther Hargreeves, Good Brother Number Five | The Boy (Umbrella Academy), Good Sister Allison Hargreeves, Good Sister Vanya Hargreeves, Klaus Hargreeves Needs A Hug, Luther Hargreeves Needs A Hug, M/M, Pansexual Klaus Hargreeves, Protective Allison Hargreeves, Protective Diego Hargreeves, Protective Luther Hargreeves, Protective Number Five | The Boy (Umbrella Academy), Reginald Hargreeves' A+ Parenting, Sibling Bonding, be warned, sorta - Freeform, thats not a tag and im suprised, the hargreeves need hugs, uh sorry it takes me forever to update
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-23
Updated: 2020-05-10
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:06:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 10,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21532681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SharkEnthusiast/pseuds/SharkEnthusiast
Summary: Klaus Hargreeves has never been one for being leashed.He doesn’t like his dad’s overbearing commands, doesn’t like his sibling's condescension, doesn’t like the reporters and flashing lights and big stages.He’s 17. He’d rather be out clubbing, drinking, kissing, than stuck here, listening to Diego and Luther fight over chord progressions and vocals and boring music stuff.He’s sick of the stupid band, his stupid hair, the stupid publicity.He’s sick of his entire life.The band au nobody wanted
Relationships: Allison Hargreeves & Diego Hargreeves, Allison Hargreeves & Diego Hargreeves & Klaus Hargreeves & Vanya Hargreeves, Allison Hargreeves & Diego Hargreeves & Luther Hargreeves, Allison Hargreeves & Klaus Hargreeves, Allison Hargreeves & Klaus Hargreeves & Vanya Hargreeves, Allison Hargreeves & Luther Hargreeves, Allison Hargreeves & Vanya Hargreeves, Ben Hargreeves & Diego Hargreeves & Klaus Hargreeves, Ben Hargreeves & Klaus Hargreeves, Ben Hargreeves & Luther Hargreeves, Ben Hargreeves & The Hargreeves, Ben Hargreeves & Vanya Hargreeves, Diego Hargreeves & Eudora Patch, Diego Hargreeves & Klaus Hargreeves, Diego Hargreeves & Luther Hargreeves, Diego Hargreeves & Vanya Hargreeves, Diego Hargreeves/Eudora Patch, Grace Hargreeves & Everyone, Klaus Hargreeves & Everyone, Klaus Hargreeves & Vanya Hargreeves, Number Five | The Boy & Ben Hargreeves & Klaus Hargreeves & Vanya Hargreeves, Number Five | The Boy & Diego Hargreeves & Klaus Hargreeves, Number Five | The Boy & The Hargreeves, Vanya Hargreeves & Everyone, fuck yeah theyre my favorite, vanya is a god dont @ me
Comments: 14
Kudos: 153





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> This is an au where the umbrella acadmy is a band! wow!! who would have thought!!! Five disappeared before the band made its debut, so hes not in this for the earlier bits. Hope you like it though!

Klaus Hargreeves has never been one for being leashed. 

He doesn’t like his dad’s overbearing commands, doesn’t like his sibling's condescension, doesn’t like the reporters and flashing lights and big stages. 

He’s 17. He’d rather be out clubbing, drinking, kissing, than stuck here, listening to Diego and Luther fight over chord progressions and vocals and boring music stuff. 

He’s sick of the stupid band, his stupid hair, the stupid publicity.

He’s sick of his entire life. 

“Jesus, Luther!” Klaus hears Diego shout from the room over. “Are you fucking stupid? That sounds like you fucking murdered a cat!” 

Klaus hums, once. Straightens from his lounging position on the couch, and yawns. 

Allison eyes him. The long sleeves to cover the heroin track marks, the bony shoulders. She knows he’s using. 

Klaus couldn’t care less. 

“We have a show tomorrow,” She says. Klaus does not meet her eyes.

“So?”

Allison sighs. Her long fingers are wrapped around a glass of something Klaus is sure is not water.

“You shouldn’t be high, then.” 

Klaus shakes her off. Grins. 

“And you shouldn’t be drinking, dearest Alli.”

She scoffs. Sighs again. Stares at him some more, then takes another sip of her drink.

Klaus counts that as a win. 

Something crashes in the room that Luther and Diego are in. “Fucking ape!” Klaus hears Diego shout. “Not the fucking guitar!” 

Klaus snorts. Ever since Diego turned 16, the majority of his vocabulary has consisted of the word fuck. 

Allison groans. Sighs for a last time, then gets up and rifles through the sheets of lyrics written in her loopy scrawl. 

“We should practice.” She says. “Get Ben in here. We’re running the setlist.” 

Klaus rolls his eyes. Stands up, then drapes himself all over Allison, causing her to stumble. 

“It’s all work and no play here, Alli! Why not just top off your drink and grab one for me, too. Practicing is for losers.” Allison shrugs him off. Eyes the tumbler of whiskey and the bottle at the bar. 

“Get Ben in here.” She repeats, voice stern. “Maybe Diego if he’s not punching in Luther’s face.” 

“Allllliii.” He reaches for the sheet of music in her hand.

“God, Klaus.” She says, pushing him away from her. “We’re running the setlist.”

Klaus wrinkles his nose. Makes one last grab for the music, then struts away when she holds it out of reach. 

God, he wants out of here as soon as possible.

He doesn’t even care if he leaves his siblings behind. 

They run the setlist. Twice over, three times, until Diego’s fingers are bloody and he’s more fuming than usual, until Allison's voice is rough around the edges, until Ben’s fingers have cramped, until Klaus has broken more than just a couple drumsticks. 

He hates this. Everything about it. He wishes that Allison had not convinced him to bleach his hair with her, because he looks like a muppet now and all of his fans seem to think he’s even cuter than usual.

It’s not that he doesn’t like the publicity, or the paparazzi. He likes a lot about it, actually. The silly rumors, gossip, the photos and scandals that he didn’t even know he was a part of. 

He just doesn’t like what comes with that. The crowd perpetually gathered around the house. (though that’s also for the rest of his siblings, too.) (Mainly Luther.) The disturbing letters, the security guards at the shows, the screaming and wailing of girls who grab at his clothes and his hair and try to rip it off. 

He doesn’t like the music that they play, to start with. It all goes through their father, so any of the loud, angry lyrics Diego contributes, or even the casual references to sex and drugs Klaus makes all get erased and replaced with ones about love and happiness and the exact opposite of what their life is. (None of them have ever been in love, Klaus doesn’t think. They’re singing about things they have no idea about.)

(It’s all extremely heteronormative, too.)

They’re basically a boy band, except one of their members is a girl. 

The fans don’t like Allison that much. Say that her voice is bad and annoying, that she looks stupid when she sings, that she is the sole reason why The Umbrella Academy hasn’t reached its full potential. 

Allison has nothing to do with that. The reason that The Umbrella Academy hasn’t reached its full potential is because the only one into it is Luther and their father.

“Fuck,” Diego says, tossing his bass onto the couch. Winces when the neck hits the wooden arm of the couch with a dull crack. 

“I fucking hate the stupid Golden Song.” Diego mutters, then throws himself into an armchair next to Ben. 

“We’re goldennnn.” Klaus sings under his breath, grinning as Diego smacks him (lightly) over the head. 

“I don’t ever want to sing that again,” Diego says, loudly, towards the room that Luther’s in. 

“It’s the worst song of ours.” He says, voice nearing yelling, smirk twisting the corners of his mouth into a cruel line. 

“Shut up,” Allison says. “Luther spent forever on that.” 

Diego scoffs. 

“I spent forever on “I hate this fucking house so much I want to burn it down” and Dad ripped it to pieces. Doesn’t matter if he spent forever on it. It sucks.” 

Allison scowls. 

“God, can you be nice to him for 2 minutes?” 

Diego grins at that. Stands up and tousles Allison's hair. 

“Nope.” He walks to the door. “Fucking hate him.” 

Some part of Klaus wishes that Luther and Diego got along like they used to. 

But then again, life wouldn’t be nearly as fun as it is now. 

Klaus stands up to get a drink. Ben sighs, but no one stops him. 

Yeah, Klaus is getting out of here as soon as he can. 


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ben “Number Six” Hargreeves killed in tragic accident

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is so fucking cliche and stupid  
> also sorry for this excuse of a chapter I'll have the 3rd one up in legit 2 seconds

Ben “Number Six” Hargreeves killed in tragic accident

By David Canterbury

Ben “Number Six” Hargreeves, 16, was killed in a tragic car wreck on Monday. Police said that while going through a green light, the Hargreeves’ car was t-boned as they were returning from a show in New York. Hargreeves died on impact. 

Hargreeves was a member of the popular Umbrella Academy along with his 4 siblings, a teen band group managed by their father, Reginald Hargreeves. 

2 people have been arrested, one being a 46-year-old man who is suspected to be the driver. Christopher Walsh, chief of police in Buffalo, where the crash took place, is dealing with the case and finding who caused this tragedy to occur. No foul play is suspected. 

Carlos McKenna, a local of the area describes this event as “gutting”.

“It’s just crazy. A day before I was watching him play, and then I have all these people sending me articles about how he’s dead.”

Angelique Fletcher, 67, says that “the street is all covered in flowers. Some people caught on that this is where it happened, and they’re driving by and dropping flowers out the window. It’s a nice thought, but the flowers are getting all crushed.”

The Hargreeves family is having a private funeral at their home in Canada. The Umbrella Reginald Hargreeves has not yet spoken to the press. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hahah wow that was so intresting I bet


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Allison wakes up in the hospital, and her brother is dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whooo boy i have no clue what route im taking for this fic.  
> BE WARNED. SOME INJURY STUFF- GENERAL DEATH AND ANGST. A TON OF THE F WORD.  
> just want you to be aware so none of you come for me haha

Allison wakes up in the hospital, and her brother is dead. 

She does not remember a ton of that night. Does not remember the sound of metal on metal, of her siblings screaming, does not remember her brother's neck, snapped like a stick. 

Everything is falling apart.

Luther’s femur is split in half. Diego has 37 stitches in the side of his face. 3 of Klaus’s ribs are broken. Allison got away with a bad concussion. She does not feel fortunate. 

Ben is dead. 

Dead, dead, dead. She cannot breathe.

She has fanmail. Piles of it. Nothing dangerous or sexual, Pogo made sure of it. 

“Hope you recover soon.” A lot of them say. Her hands shake when reading them because she is not sure if she can do that. (Ben is dead. Neck snapped, 6 broken ribs, collapsed lung. Dead, dead, dead.) Allison does not know what to do. 

She does not cry when reading fan mail. Doesn’t cry when Klaus, high on pain meds, begins to wail and tear at Allison's face with his nails. (“Alli, please tell me they’re lying. They’re lying. God, they are, and this is all some trick and I need to get out, Alli, I can’t breathe, holy fuck, Alli, Alli, fuck,  _ Allison _ .”) She doesn’t cry when Luther goes in for surgery, does not cry when Vanya flings herself into her arms and sobs so hard it sounds like screaming. 

Grace drives Allison and Diego home. (Allison starts to shake when she really thinks about the fact that they’re driving in a car so soon after.)

“No broken bones,” Allison explains to Klaus. “Diego just has his stitches and I just have my concussion.”

Klaus does not respond. She doesn't know if he ever will, after this. 

Grace drives them home and kisses them each on the forehead and wipes her tears away as she drives. 

“I’m sorry,” She says, and Allison wants to throw up because  _ I’m sorry _ means this is real. “That you kids have to go through this.” Allison hears Grace’s voice catch. 

“Quit fucking crying.” Diego says in the seat beside Allison. His voice is cruel and cold, ice. Sharp. Good. Allison needs something familiar. “He wasn’t your fucking kid. Not your fucking  _ brother.  _ You didn’t see it fucking happen, didn’t see his fucking neck  _ snap. _ ”

Allison is laughing. Because she cannot imagine, imagine it at all. Cannot imagine Ben, who was alive a week ago, dead and cold and bloody and bruised and mutilated. She laughs, and it’s loud and joyful and not even a little hysterical. And she’s laughing and laughing until she’s sobbing so hard she can’t breathe at all, and her hands are digging into her cheeks and her head is  _ pounding _ and Diego is yelling and Grace is too and she can’t stop, she can’t, she can’t, she can’t. 

“I swear to fucking god, Allison,” Diego shouts. She can’t stop. She can’t, she can’t, she can’t. “I-I-I-I swear to f-f-f-f-f-fucking god.”

Allison does not stop crying. When they arrive at the house, she stumbles out and dry heaves on the pavement. Grace’s hands are rubbing circles into her back. She can’t breathe. She can’t stop. 

Everything is falling apart. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> christ i used to write actually long chapters what happened. sorry for this. I guess idk if it was that emotional cause it was super early. But i think this might be about dealing with bens death? and growing up? I don't really know though.


	4. Chapter Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey welcome to hell

If Allison and Luther’s place was the greenhouse, Klaus, Ben and Diego’s was the fire escape. 

But Ben is dead now, so Klaus avoids it like the plague. Doesn’t even step foot into the attic or halfway up the stairs. He avoids Diego, too, because Diego reminds him of Ben, and Klaus has been doing everything recently to forget about that. 

He leaves the house most days. Goes off to the record store to flirt with the boy who works there on Tuesdays and Thursdays and the girl who works there every other day of the week. When it’s night out and the stars are diluted and dull and the cars too loud and all Klaus can think of is Ben, Ben,  _ Ben, _ he shoots up or smokes or pops pills until he feels more monster than human. 

Ben is fucking dead, and the house is painfully quiet. 

Dad is usually gone out with press stuff or insurance or wherever the hell he fucks off to when he’s gone. None of his siblings play their instruments anymore. Good. Klaus thinks he would probably cry if they did. 

Klaus misses Ben like a vital organ. Misses the too many books, the sarcastic smile, the rolled eyes, cramped fingers. The desperate need for Klaus to “ _ Be good, we gotta make Dad happy.”  _ Some nights when Klaus wakes up in a stranger's bed he went home with the night before, Ben’s voice is in his ears, scolding, then desperate, then screaming and then gone. 

Ben hadn’t looked human when Klaus had opened his eyes after  _ something had hit their car and Luther had shut up mid sentence and they left earth for a second _ . 

Klaus does not know how his siblings are dealing. He hasn’t seen them in the months since he’s been home. He knows that Diego yells at Allison until she cries, yells at Vanya until she finally stands up to him, yells at Grace and the whole damn world. Knows that Luther screams in his sleep, cries because his leg is still in that stupid cast, 3 months after. Knows Allison sneaks down to the bar a block down and gets wasted, knows Vanya hasn’t touched her violin, knows that Five is gone, that Ben is dead.

(Dead, dead, dead.)

Klaus wakes up in his own bed for once. He smells like disgusting- like 3 day old beer and sweat and the remnants of joints. It is bright outside his window, so bright it hurts his eyes, so bright it feels wrong to look at. 

He itches to play the piano for the first time in months.

He doesn’t think about Ben. If he pretends he isn’t dead, Klaus feels normal. 

He rolls out of bed. Drags the blanket along with him, down the stairs, out into the living room. He plops himself onto the couch, reaches for the pack of cigarettes and lighter resting on the table. His hands aren’t shaking. Huh. That’s the first time in a while. 

He gets up. Takes a drag of the cigarette, blows the smoke out. Cracks his fingers, walks over to the piano, sits down and begins to play Clair de Lune. 

He’s not the best. He messes up every couple of minutes, but he  _ likes  _ the way it sounds, the fluidity of it. Likes it because it reminds him of Ben so much it hurts, likes it because he can imagine Ben sitting where he is now, fingers flying over the keys. He likes it because Ben did. (He always liked the classical stuff better anyway.)

“Hey.” Someone says in the doorway. Klaus turns around. 

Diego. 

“Hey.” 

Klaus does not know when their silence became so painful.

(Probably when Ben died, neck snapped, bloody. Klaus shakes the image out of his head.)

“Sounds good,” Diego says, and Klaus can tell he’s watching the cigarette between his lips. “You playing.”

Klaus hums. Blows out smoke. Rests his hand on the side of the piano and messes around with a C major scale with his left hand. 

“What do you want.” Klaus says. He can feel the nicotine flooding his system. His skin doesn’t feel as tight. 

Diego clears his throat. Steps towards Klaus at the piano, floorboards creaking. 

“I just thought-”

He steps forward again. 

“I just thought you were Ben.” 

Klaus breathes in. Because he can imagine it. Diego, waking up to piano music, and only thinking of Ben, crouched over the piano for so long his back hurt. Fuck, he can imagine it. He doesn’t want to.

God, Klaus wants to forget. 

“Oh.” Is all he says. 

Diego joins him by the piano. Riffles through the papers on top.

“Oh.” He says back. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bruh


	5. Chapter Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Come on,” Luther says, loud enough for the audience to hear. He plays the chords, again, again, again, guitar all too melodic and sweet for the desperate way Allison is sobbing the lyrics into the mic. “Allison, come on.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> grace is there like nanny/tutor/teacher in this. I tried to make her feel human but also really really nice and just,,,, motherly. IDK tho about it.

Grace Parker feels terrible for the Hargreeves children. 

She’s known them for years, hired by Hargreeves when they were 4. She watched them grow up, tutored them in everything besides math (that was Pogo’s job), taught Vanya how to play the violin. She’s attached to them in a way she knows she shouldn’t be. 

It hurts her to see them like this. Silent. On edge. Sobbing and so broken down she can barely get some of them to eat. 

Luther throws himself into practice. Practices his riffs, writes song after song until he’s gone through 2 spiral notebooks. 

Diego yells until his voice is hoarse, until he can’t speak without stuttering. He helps her with the dishes, though. Apologizes while helping her pull up weeds in the courtyard, too. She’s always known he likes to keep occupied. 

Allison lays in her bed, stinking of whiskey, tears dried on her face. She wails and paws at Grace's chest. (“He’s dead.” She repeats. Chants, hysterical. “He’s dead, he’s dead, he’s  _ dead _ .”) Grace always wipes away the tears, presses kisses into her forehead, sorry, sorry, sorry. Sorry for the aches and pains, sorry for the grief, the snapped neck, broken femur, 37 stitches.

Grace doesn’t know what to do about Klaus, because he barely talks, barely eats. Because she  _ knows _ where he goes every night. She finds the pills underneath his pillows. Finds the bags of pot, cigarettes, molly and ecstasy. She flushes the pills down the toilet, pockets one of the packs of cigarettes, dumps the rest. Makes his bed and cleans his room, leaves squares of chocolate on his desk. 

She does not think about Ben, because even if he wasn’t her son, he felt like it. 

Vanya wakes her up some nights, with her tired eyes and left on lights. With her hyperventilating and crying, her panic and wailing and digging her fingernails into her face until little half-moon shapes litter her skin. Grace smiles as warmly as she can, hugs her tight and close, presses Vanya’s medication into her palm. (“Just take one.”) She gets into the habit of not sleeping, staying up with Vanya bundled beside her on the couch, stitches in her sewing neat and perfect. 

She gives the kids her love. All of it, because lord knows they need it. And she may be young and hopeless, but she knows that has to mean something. She stands tall and vigilant at the funeral, holds the children to her chest, one at a time. She does not cry. Hargreeves would fire her on the spot.

Diego calls her mom that night. Grace’s heart aches. 

It’s only been 5 months, and Hargreeves is making the kids play at a show. 

“I want them focussed.” He tells grace. Eyes stern, cold, commanding. She is terrified of him. “A new album needs to be out in 6 months. After that, a tour.”

She nods. Watches Hargreeves pile the kids into another large black car, instruments towed behind. She seethes. God, she hates that man. Hates his yelling, his berating, his insistence for his kids to be better. She hates him for Luther's aching leg, for Diego’s scars, for Allison’s tears. She hates him for Klaus’s drugs, for Vanya’s medication, for the casket buried 6 feet underground. 

She takes her own car to the venue. Stands backstage, watches Pogo help the kids set up. (There is a startling absence of the keyboard. Grace pretends not to notice.)

She watches the crowd filter in through the doors, watches Klaus begin to bite his nails. Watches the joint get passed from Klaus to Diego to Allison. She does not say anything. To be honest, she could go for a hit now, too. 

The lights go down and the kids step out and the crowd  _ wails _ like a siren, loud and endless and painful. 

They play terribly. So bad the crowd is dead silent. Allison starts to cry while singing. Klaus’s fingers slip from the drumsticks, letting them clatter to the floor. 

“Come  _ on,”  _ Luther says, loud enough for the audience to hear. He plays the chords, again, again, again, guitar all too melodic and sweet for the desperate way Allison is sobbing the lyrics into the mic. “Allison,  _ come on. _ ” 

Allison stops, cut off and breathy, and Luther's fingers pause on the strings. 

“Fuck you.” Grace can hear Diego say to him as he lifts the bass’s strap off of himself and lets the guitar drop to the floor. He steps toward Luther, finger accusing. “I am so fucking sick of you, Luther. He’s dead and she’s  _ crying _ , and you don’t even give a shit.” He turns around, grabs Allison by the arm, yanks her backstage. 

The piano track is still playing. 

Grace reaches for the cigarette pack in her back pocket. Grabs Klaus’s lighter from the chair beside her. God, God, God. She wants those kids to be her own. Rescue them from this. 

She’d do anything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> who else wants to be a train wreck w me?  
> oh also in this fic Vanya's meds are actually for anxiety!!!!


	6. Chapter Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The prime 8's, my style (aka, ruined)

Allison leaves after that, and Luther cries for a week. Because his leg still aches, cause Dad is gone, cause finding Allison’s bed empty and her stuff gone feels almost as bad as losing a third sibling. 

Klaus leaves two weeks later. Stands up from the dinner table, lights a joint, blows the smoke into Dad’s face, grinning as he bats it away. 

“So long, fuckers.” He says, grabs a fancy heirloom from a shelf, lets the door slam on his way out. Diego stands to chase after him. 

Dad yells at him. 

And then it’s just the three of them. Diego, with his profanity written on the walls of his room to spite dad even though he can’t seem to leave. Luther, with his melancholy guitar and quiet “yes sir”s. Vanya, with her smashed violin laying on her desk, with her new leather jacket, with her lucky strikes. 

The house is so quiet and empty Vanya hurts. Hurts with the absence of slammed doors, absence of the bass guitar, classical songs on the piano, beats played on the drums without a melody or song to belong to. So she fills it. Fills it with vinyls from the record store of The Clash and Iggy Pop and The Sex Pistols. Fills it with new-minted anger and the kind of music Dad hates. She steals Luther’s record player, skips meals to screw with Dad, buys heavy boots and packs and packs and packs of cigs. 

She pretends she doesn’t cry over Ben, pretends she doesn’t dream about her siblings dying one by one, pretends she isn’t terrified of being left with their monster of a father. She lies and lies and lies, gets angry cause she’s sick of being subdued, screams at the top of her lungs to Kill City. 

“Black Flag, right?” 

Vanya turns around. Diego leaning against her bedroom doorway. He’s staring at the record player, staring at the poster on her walls, staring at her. 

She stares back.

“Yep.” 

He’s statue still, knuckles bruised from god knows what, hair wet and tousled from his shower. 

“What other shit do you got?” He asks, finally. Steps into her room, walks to the stack of records on the floor. “Jesus, man, you gotta get a shelf or something, they’re gonna get all warped.” She watches him finger through them. His knuckles are all torn up and scabbed over too, once she looks at them closer. He turns to her again.

“Fuck, yeah, Vanya.” He says. Grins. Vanya lets out a breath. 

Diego is grinning at her, fingers hovering over her records of punk music.  _ He likes it _ . Fuck, it feels so good for him not to be mad for once.

Vanya smiles back. 

For 3 glorious months after that, it’s Diego and Vanya against the world. They practice riffs and getting the badass, punk rock voice down pat and then they hit venues with the force of a fucking sledgehammer. They scream into mics and break their guitars on stage, hire ugly roadies to be their drummers, one after another. Vanya is happy. She dreams about her and Diego and Body- the Prime 8’s- an entire punk band of their own, starting their very own revolution. 

Things collapse fast, and Vanya lies and says she doesn’t know why, but she totally does. Luther finds out. And no matter how much Diego threatens him, no matter how much Vanya says she’s gonna drown him if he tells, he still does. 

“You both look like you’ve been hit by a truck,” Dad tells them after a gig that results in wired jaws and broken finger joints. “Have you anything to say for yourselves?” He asks. 

Diego leans forward, elbows on his knees. He grins, dangerous and redhot. “You should see the other guy.” 

Vanya snorts. She wants to high five him, cause Reginald doesn’t scare her anymore, not after months of dingy venues and a little too much weed. 

“The ‘other guy’ happens to be the son of a powerful C.E.O John Perseus.” 

Diego laughs. Long and low, a snigger. 

“Boy’s in the hospital,” Dad says, looking over the newspaper. 

“Maybe he shoulda kept his drink in his hand,” Diego says. 

“They had to wire his jaw, Number Two.” 

Vanya watches Diego clench his knuckles, once, twice, three times. If Vanya lives off of the music they’re playing, Diego lives off the anger itself, the fights, the police sirens, the yelling at the crowd, at Luther, at Dad. 

“Maybe he shoulda kept it shut.” 

Dad pulls out a copy of their vinyl, and Vanya can’t help but grin. She thinks it turned out too damn good, with the downturned edges of Vanya and Diego’s mouths, Body in the middle. It looks frighteningly real, so much that it almost scares her, even though she’s way too punk rock for fear anyway. 

“ _ Maybe _ he disagreed with your trite little recording. And what exactly does the title imply? Has someone asked you to kill the president? And if so, which president.”

Vanya seethes. She might be turning into Diego after all. 

“It’s a political statement.” 

“You are far too young and stupid to make one, Number Seven.”

Her chest tightens. One through Seven, 1 gone, 1 dead, 2 left without a warning, one forgotten, unheard of, invisible. ( _ Ben, Ben, Ben. Neck snapped, bloody. The broken femur, the 37 stitches, the aching ribs.) _ “I’m sending you off to music school in Paris, Number Seven. Your brother's influence has not been good to you, and I believe some space would treat both of you well.”

“We have a  _ gig _ tonight!” Vanya shouts, stands up, quick on her feet. 

“No further discussion. Your flight is at 7 p.m. tomorrow. And get that record out of my sight.” 

Diego swears, he  _ swears, promises,  _ that they are going to escape together. Forget the academy, their father, Grace. Swears to god he’ll be there the next day for the gig, promises he’ll be there on time, too.

It doesn’t matter that Vanya waits for forever for him, doesn’t matter that Body yells at her and then quits the band, doesn’t matter that this thing the two of them build is crumbling. It doesn’t matter that he never shows up because he’s “busy”. (Scrawled on a napkin from Griddy’s, shoved into Vanya’s guitar case as a way of an excuse. It doesn’t matter that the Prime 8’s never play again because Vanya does end up going to music school even though she hates the violin more than anything. Doesn’t matter because after that, she straightens out, quits the smoking and guitar, quits dressing in all black. It doesn’t matter because she grows up, and Vanya knows that in the long run, that is a hell of a lot better than being stuck playing punk music until she and Diego are all old like Iggy Pop. 

Whatever. 

She sits in the back of a cab driving her to the airport so she can get on that plane and arrive in Paris the next day. 

It was a hell of a ride while it lasted. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> some of the dialogue is legit straight from anywhere but here by Gerard Way and Gabriel ba so like don't sue me or anything it's just cause its good dialogue and I'm bored and unoriginal


	7. Chapter Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do understand that it's legit 12:00 am but whatever here's a present for all the other lonely insomniac bitches who live in Europe

Diego forgets the bass guitar. Forgets the Prime 8’s in general, forgets Allison's waxy voice, forgets about the torture that was the Umbrella Academy. 

He trades the guitar for a badge and gun, for  _ authority _ , for doing the right thing. For the police academy, for keeping his mouth shut, for uniforms and Eudora Patch.

They meet in the second week when Diego is still keeping quiet. When he’s still getting shit for being one of the Umbrella Kids, still controlling his fists from punching because he  _ wants _ this. She asks him if he’s another one of those army brats or someone who served overseas, and he grins at her, tells her neither, and she grins back. And even when he tells her about his life long stint of fame she doesn’t mind, doesn’t complain about how the academy probably just let him in ‘cause of that, doesn’t ask which one he was. Eudora Patch instead tells him about why she wants to become a police officer, and only looks at Diego’s scar for a brief second. 

“Cause I want to save people.” She says, glancing away. He bites his tongue at that, stops the statistics from rolling out from under his teeth about how  _ cops don’t really save shit anyway _ , how it’s puzzles and using your head and seeing terrible things. He smiles because Eudora Patch is beautiful in her hopefulness, her need to do the right thing. 

“Yeah.” He says back. “Me too.” 

(It’s the opposite. It’s the need to do something with his life, the boredom, the half-assed remark Ben made about Diego after he had gotten that sudoku book from Klaus and solved it in half a week.) 

They fall into something casual- shared grins, kicking each other from underneath the table. In between push-ups, firearms training and orders, Diego finds himself waking up and wanting her- the sharp tongue, the careful smile, stealing food off his tray at lunch. 

He can’t wait to graduate from the police academy and finally start dating her for real, cause right now he feels like a silly kid- aching to hold her hand and kiss her, aching for normalcy and the warmth of her body against his. 

“Patch.” He tells her, 6 weeks in and halfway through. “I think I like you.” 

She smirks. 

“Nice one, Hargreeves. You sound like a middle schooler.” 

He scoffs, ignores how he can feel his cheeks heat up. 

“So?”

She looks at him, hair pulled tightly into its bun, eyes bright, hopeful, hopeless. (Just a little mocking, too.)

“I think I like you too.”

Their days off coincide with each other, and since Diego’s relatives are shit and Eudora’s live half a country away, they spend it together. They take the bus into the city, waste money on an amusement park, go out for lunch. After Diego spend 10 minutes throwing up in the men's restroom after a particularly awful roller coaster, Eudora laughs at him, grabs his hand, and doesn’t let go. Diego tries to ignore how good it feels, how pissed he is that in just a couple hours he’ll be back in the academy with the same monotony, same instructors barking orders, same breakfast, lunch, dinner. 

“Okay,” Eudora says over a cup of coffee in a cafe that closely resembles Griddy’s Donuts. “Tell me about yourself.” 

Diego frowns because Eudora knows him- knows his smile and his anger and his careful blush. 

He thinks of all the shit she doesn’t know- about his siblings and how hell like the Umbrella Academy actually was, about how much Diego misses playing the guitar, about how much he likes to fight. 

“Well,” He starts, grabbing another sugar from the container on the table. “I don’t know. My name is Diego Hargreeves. I was in a band until I was 17, and I used to play the bass.”

Eudora laughs. 

“Diego.”

He laughs too, because it feels  _ so damn good _ . Because he wants Eudora so much it hurts because she’s good and just and kind. Because he makes her laugh  _ somehow _ because she always helps him out with the crossword in the morning. 

He takes a deep sip of his coffee (even though he hates it). Glances around the cafe, looking for something to change the subject to, looking for something to talk about. 

(He finds it.)

“Holy shit.” He whispers. Sets down the coffee, scrambles out of his chair, strides to the counter where a boy with a head of all-too-familiar black hair is standing. 

“Klaus.” 

The boy in front of him turns. And it’s him, the lazy grin, the wild hair, the heroin track marks covering his arms. 

“Oh! What a surprise!” Klaus says. Sticks out a hand for Diego to shake, which is weird, but it’s probably the drugs. 

“What are you doing here?” Diego asks. He does not shake Klaus’s hand, just stares at his long limbs and his dirty shoes and smudged eyeliner.

“Getting coffee, you silly goose!” He turns back to the barista. “Do you happen to have waffles here?” She shakes her head, and so Klaus turns back to Diego. He still has that stupid grin on his face. 

Diego is suddenly just so, so  _ mad. _ That Klaus is standing here, either high or coming down from one, acting like he hasn’t ignored all of Diego’s calls ever since he left. 

“Why didn’t you return my calls?” Diego says, watching as Klaus blinks at him, suddenly guilty. 

Diego can see Eudora hovering 3 feet away from the corner of his vision, and he wants to go to her. Wants Klaus to not be here, because Klaus has always been a hurricane (more so after Ben died) and he always leaves Diego tired. 

“Oh. I didn’t think they were important, so I sold it.” Klaus laughs, and Diego knows it’s because he’s nervous or guilty or whatever, but it can’t help but make his fingers clench. 

“I thought you were dead.” 

“Aww, Dee, I can’t believe you care! You know you had me fooled with the whole big angry vibe coming from you. And anyways, I’m fine. See?” He twirls, twice. Diego’s nails are digging into his palm.

“Klaus.”

“Dieeegooo.” Klaus singsongs. He’s turned back to the cash register, reaching into his jacket pocket for a couple of crumpled bills. “Your cheapest coffee, please.” He tells the barista, who looks at him with his lips all curled up in disgust. (That makes Diego pissed, too.)

Somedays, Diego wishes he could tame himself. Stamp down the anger like it’s a fire, lie and say “it’s good to see you”. Wishes he could be some kind of breed similar to Allison- all charm and shiny white teeth. 

He steps forward, spins Klaus around so they’re facing each other.

“Ben is fucking dead, Klaus.” He watches Klaus’s face fall, watch the grin fade just to spring up again, this time looking a little more pained. 

“He’s fucking dead and he’s not coming back, so stop fucking filling your body with this shit. It might make you feel better, but it’s not gonna change that he’s in a fucking grave in that stupid cemetery and he’s been dead for  _ 2 whole years _ -”

“Diego.” Eudora says then, all soft like. Careful.

Fuck. 

Eudora grabs his hand and pushes him out.

He removes his hand from hers, rakes it through his all-too-short hair. Walks to the end of the block and just stands there, chest heaving. 

_ Fuck, fuck, fuck. _

“Brother?” Eudora asks once his hands and the knot in his chest have loosened. 

“Yeah.” He can see the question on her lips. “Number 4. The fucking drummer.” 

Eudora grabs his hand again and Diego resists the urge to rip it away again. 

(He gets kicked out the next week) 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> jesus christ, man


	8. Chapter Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heya

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no excuse for why this took so long to update whoops
> 
> WARNING: this chapter is in no way shape or form idealizing achoholism. Do not deal with your problems by drinking. Another warning: chapter contains drinking and accidental pregnancies, though the child is kept

Allison Hargreeves, in the end, got what she wanted. 

She’s got the entire world wrapped around her finger. She does interviews that aren’t monitored or edited by her father, sings about shit that actually matters to her, laughs out loud and doesn’t care who hears it

She was on Broadway, for a while. People don’t hate her voice anymore. She’s got fans, little girls that look up to her, modeling offers and photoshoots. In between tours of shows and musicals and plays, she goes shopping with her friends, gossips about her shitty brothers, drinks until her chest doesn’t ache anymore. She brushes off questions at interviews about the Umbrella Academy, laughs awkwardly when they mention Ben, quietly calls “ _ hey, sorry, can we stay away from that topic?” _ . She’s grown up. Past her father and his cold eyes, past inappropriate fan mail from 50 year old men, past the viral video of her choking out the lyrics to another terrible Umbrella Academy song 6 months after Ben had died. 

Sometimes, when it’s sunny out and her vocal chords don’t ache after a show, she’ll hum a tune or two that she made up, write it down, save it for later.  _ Just in case. _ And more than just  _ sometimes _ , more than just  _ always _ , she forgets them, downs them in alcohol, because thinking about shit like that hurts her, even after 7 years, 5 therapists, 8 nights spent in seedy motel rooms puking her guts out. 

Allison hates her father for making her into this fucked up creature, this backwards monster with a pretty face and a good voice. She hates Grace (mom), for her watching, head cocked, mouth turned up in the corners. She hates Luther, Diego, Klaus, Vanya (1,2,4,7), for obedience, harsh lines, track marks, violins. 

She meets Pattrick, hooks up with him at a party, and finds herself 3 and a half weeks later staring silently at 2 faint lines on a pregnancy test in her bathroom. She thinks about calling Vanya and telling her that she’s going to be an aunt, thinks about calling Diego or Klaus or Luther, thinks about the thing growing inside her, the person who put it there. 

So instead of calling her siblings she calls Patrick instead. 

He’s a good guy. He swears he’s gonna stick around. Between all of the doctors appointments he comes with her to, between throwing up in the toilet, his hand on her back, between shared TV interests and style choices and lives, Allison falls in love with him. And 3 weeks before Allison is supposed to push baby Claire into the world, he proposes to her. She almost says no. (Because Patrick is good and kind and supportive, loves her even when swelling and throwing up and snoring. Because Allison has never had someone love her this way, and it scares her.) 

She says yes, and they get married 6 months after Claire is born. ( _ Selfish, selfish, selfish. _ ) Allison does not invite any of her siblings, just writes Ben’s name over and over and over on wedding invitations until her lungs feel stretched and raw and her eyes are wet and her legs shake when she stands on them. Patricks beautiful, large family is told not to mention the absence of Allisons, and they get married. The end. 

They raise their little girl together. Happily. Allison tries not to cry as much, tries not to be absent for birthdays, tries to love Patrick as her own, love her child with every part of herself. It’s hard, because she’s young and pretty and her voice is strong, and big people like Trevor Nunn want her, even if the musicals they are writing are weird and twisted and annoying.

She got married at 20, and she cannot help be scared about how she has turned into the whore her father said she would become. She wonders if Klaus is still the disappointment, if Diego is still the rebel, if Vanya is still the scape-goat, if Luther is still the hero. If Ben is still fucking dead, or that was another one of their father’s various lies. 

She tries to not drink until she pukes. When she does, Patrick stares at her perched over the toilet, lips pressed into a line. 

_ Number Three. Number Four, Five, Six, Seven, all the way to 43. _

“Patick,” She says, heavy, star filled with too much, water glass poured to the brim. 

“Allison,” He says, back. Drags her into bed, arms all too sturdy for how breakable Allison feels. “You have to stop this.” 

She nods. Swallows bile, nods again. 

“Sure.”

_ Sure, sure, sure, sure.  _

That morning, Allison showers. Plays with Claire, tiny fingers gripping around hers. 

_ Do it all for her.  _

She does. 

She does, one thousand times over. 

Patrick is getting sick of her, and she can tell. Can tell that even though they still sleep in the same bed, still eat dinner at the table with Claire, he wants to start to yell at her, wants to tell her to shut up, wants to smack her hands away from his, wants to leave her. It’s been 4 years. 4 years of nothing but  _ love, _ and it hurts to think that Patrick is leaving her because of this, not because of her bad days, her drinking, her fucked-up-ness.

When he finally does give her divorce papers to sign, he apologizes. 

Allison does not cry. 

She still sees Claire every 2 weeks, so it’s okay. 

She misses him, because she swears to god she loved him. 

Vanya calls 3 weeks later, tells her that Dad has died. 

Allison cries until she can’t, drinks until she stinks like it, laughs about the fact that Allison Hargreeves, number two,  _ The Rumor, _ is this much of a mess.

Laughs that after all this time, dad is finally dead.

It feels good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope it’s not 1+ month before you see me again but sadly  
> It might be cause idk uh


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: The hargreeves in this story are a little younger than they are when the show starts up (around 26 instead of 29) because 1) I made a timeline and had no idea what they would be doing for like 10 years until they were 29 and 2), making them 29 creates this huge gap from this chapter to the last. And also it’s just for fun. Also, this is so Vanya's book is still very recent when Reginald dies (assuming they were 24-25 when it was written.)   
> Sidenote: They all have separate birthdays now. Diego is the oldest (just for kicks). Ben was the youngest (also just for kicks). With him dead, five is the youngest (for the most kicks ever). The end.

Vanya wrote the book just a little bit ago, and Klaus isn’t entirely sure he’s completely over that, yet. But on the general scale of-fucked-up-ness, it was a general 9.3, so Klaus quotes it daily as an expression of his own general fucked-up-ness which, personally, would be around 10.15. 

It’s a Thursday, and Klaus hates Thursdays, because his Thursday partner, Jared, is generally an asshole, even if his cock is big and he has nice hair. 

Klaus kind of likes the way his life has worked out. He has 7 lovers, one for each day of the week. None of them know about each other, or know that they are all being used for daily sex and room and board. It’s all very rom-com, very cheesy 90’s movie, some of the shit that Allison would have loved, except for the fact that Klaus doesn’t love any of them back. 

_ Allison was always the most selfish. The most materialistic. Somedays, I wondered if Allison really cared more about the fame or her family.  _

Klaus stopped trying to not think about his family a long time ago, because before his whole 7-lover-7-days extravaganza, they were all he knew. 

“K,” Jared says. Klaus hates how he calls him by his initial. (At least it’s not Number 4, The Seance). 

“What?” Klaus hums, turns over in Jared’s slightly-too-small-for-two-people bed. 

“You’re thinking too loud, babe. Chill out.” 

Klaus likes to pretend he doesn’t think at all. 

He knows he’s cruel for doing this. He doesn’t really care. Jared is a dickbag and so are Katy and Daniel and Sam. Klaus is 67% sure that Phil is onto him, and Amara cares a little too much.

Avery is okay. He’s Italian. He makes good food for Klaus, but always tries to get Klaus clean. 

He doesn’t know how Vanya thought that Diego was always the meanest one. 

_ Some part of me is completely convinced that Diego is only capable of hating things.  _

All Klaus got in “Extraordinary: My Life as Number Seven” was a chapter about his drug habits, his various boyfriends, and Ben. He’s not sure if Vanya is taking criticism, but it fucking sucked. 

He rolls out of Jared’s bed. Ignores him begging for Klaus to stay, insists he has work, grabs his duffle from the door, and leaves. 

It’s Avery next. Klaus only smokes a little weed, just to convince him that he’s doing better. 

“Klaus,” Avery says that night in bed, fingers in Klaus’s hair, eyes somber. 

_ We had numbers before we had names. Labels. Reginald picked his favorites early.  _

Klaus’s name sounds awkward in Avery’s mouth, so Klaus thinks about how weird it would be if he started saying Number Four instead. It makes him half-smile, makes him think about how he had spent hours in his room sounding out the vowels when he was 11. Thinks about the roundness of it, 1 syllable long, hard consonant, soft vowels. 

“Avery,” Klaus says back, reaching up to disentangle Avery’s hands. 

Klaus can hear the fan running. Can hear Avery’s dog, Banner, panting on the floor next to the bed, can hear his own heart beating, his breathing, Vanya’s voice in his head.

_ Klaus always had the inability to stay interested in something for more than 2 weeks. Whether it was people, hobbies, or getting sober.  _

“I think I could fall in love with you.” 

Avery’s voice is soft. Husky with sleep. His eyes are big and brown, warm and stifling, and Klaus, very suddenly, needs to get out. The blankets are choking him. 

“Okay,” Klaus says.

He leaves the next morning, feeling numb. 

2 weeks later, Allison calls him for the first time in 10 years and tells him that Dad is dead. She does not sound like she’s mourning, just sounds excited to talk to him again and a little older than the last time they talked. 

Klaus hangs up before she can. Thinks. 

Dad is dead. Gone, rotting, heart stopped, skin cold. 

He thinks about the numbers for names. About the drumsticks littering his floor, about nervous tapping, about leg cramps and fans and bleached blonde hair. Thinks about Dad, eyes severe, mouth angry. The 13-hour practice sessions, the 25-minute break for lunch, the arguing and backhands and fainting and yelling. 

_ I didn’t realize how messed up our childhood was until I had left the house. How, from the age of 4, Dad had declared that I wasn’t cut out for the stage, that I didn’t have any talent, and that my siblings did. How he separated them from me and punished me for any distractions. Living in that house, I had thought that my isolation was reasonable and correct. That this was how parents treated their children, how siblings treated their siblings. _

Dad is dead. Gone, rotting, heart stopped, skin cold. His eyes aren’t severe anymore, mouth isn’t angry, because he was incinerated to ash 3 hours ago and his funeral is in a week. 

Good. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you didn't already know, I have the hardest time writing Klaus. This is probably because I generally write angst, and so much of Klaus's character is humor balanced with that, and personally, I have no idea how to write something that fits those guidelines.   
> Basically, what I am trying to say, is that my attempts at humor are 1) very weak and 2) very weird because that is the only thing I know how to write. So, if this chapter was terrible out of character and terribly weird, I'm sorry, I have a really difficult time writing Klaus.   
> The end.   
> Also thank you for reading this! I plan to update more frequently after this.


	10. Chapter Ten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It has been 16 years, 4 months, and 14 days.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It has been exactly a month since the last time I updated this, sorry! I somehow convinced myself that having 3 ongoing fics was a good idea, and now I'm scrambling a little to update them semi-regularly. Anyway, here's the second to last chapter ( i think).

It has been 16 years, 4 months, and 14 days. A lot has changed. 

Finnegan Davis watches the Umbrella Academy return to the mansion, one by one. He’s sitting in his car, heat turned all the way up. Rain is splattered all over his windows, but he doesn’t turn on his windshield wipers. The squeaking will only disrupt Paganini's Violin Concerto No. 4 that wafts out of his shitty dashboard radio, and this particular piece has always been his favorite. There’s only one classical music station on-air, nowadays. Such a pity. 

Number Three arrives first. Finnegan Davis knows about the divorce, about Claire and Patrick and tabloids that say that they’re “doing alright” He knows about the Broadway shows and the interviews, about the album that's in the works, of Allison’s studio appointments and waxy voice and trips with Claire to the beach. He’s done his research. Number Two is next, and his face is bruised. Boxing or bar fighting, because Number Two’s blood has apparently always run hot. 

Number Four looks the same as the last time Finn saw him on stage. He’s still bony, still is tripping over his feet, is still dressing in glitter and leather. A lady in a crimson fiat drops him off, and Klaus gets out and does not look back. 

Vanya looks the same as the picture on the back of her book. 

It has been 16 years, 4 months, and 14 days. He doesn’t think they will recognize him. 

Reginald Hargreeves is dead. Has been for half a week, and his ashes are sitting in the living room. Between that and the waxy body that he found, Luther feels like he can barely breathe. 

Allison arrives first. She looks good. Not quite happy, but not quite sad, either. 

“Luther,” she says, and he can’t remember the last time someone called him that instead of Number One.

He hasn’t played the guitar in 4 years. His hands shake whenever he tries. 

He doesn’t get fan mail anymore, either. 

Diego cut his hair. Short enough that the scar shows through, light against dark. 

“Luther,” he says, mouth a cold, hard, line. His jaw is bruised, a mess of purple and yellow, and his eyes are a little dazed. 

Last time Luther saw Diego it was the night before he left, his knuckles all torn up and weeping blood from punching through the door of Dad’s study while they were all sleeping. Last time Luther saw Diego, his hair was still a shaggy mess, mouth was still half-broken, and was still growing into his limbs. 

“We’re having a meeting when Klaus and Vanya get here. In the living room.” 

Diego nods. Steps past him, walks up the stairs, bracing a hand on the banister. Luther watches, pushes a breath out from his nose. They have all grown up, left him behind in a lonely house. 

Klaus comes swirling in, and his hair has glitter in it, and his grin is big. He smells like weed. Luther does not say anything. 

“Luther!” Klaus cries, kisses him on both cheeks. “Mein Bruder!”

“Klaus.” Luther’s face refuses to fix itself into a smile, but Klaus’s grin only spreads. 

“What, didn’t miss my company? That’s impossible, everybody loves me!”

Luther forces his tongue to move. He does not know why he’s acting like this. 

“It was quiet without you.” He forces a smile. 

Reginald Hargreeves is dead. Luther found him. His feet are cold. 

Klaus smiles larger. Kisses him on both cheeks all over again, skips off to steal gold letter openers from Dad’s office. 

He’s the same. Looks it, acts it. His elbows and knees and fingers are still bony, his grin still stretches his face too wide, and he’s still on drugs, apparently. It’s oddly comforting to know that Luther isn’t the only one who hasn’t changed. 

Vanya brushes by with a violin case attached to her back and a blank look on her face. It’s funny that she was the only one to stick to music. Luther read her book, and just thinking about it makes him nauseous. Makes his leg ache, even after years. 

Sometimes he forgets that Ben is even dead at all. Sometimes he forgets that Number Five ran away, and the police never found anything. Sometimes he forgets that his siblings left him in this house, and sometimes he forgets that his father is even dead. 

When Luther had found him, his corpse was beginning to stink. 

“There’s a meeting,” he tells Vanya’s turned back. 

She does not respond. 

Luther calls his meeting, and Diego does not make fun of him once. Does not snicker or laugh, taunt him. He just sits, head in his hands, jaw painfully bruised. Klaus hums a silly song that's been playing on the radio under his breath, blows smoke around the living room. Allison is drinking, and Klaus is smoking, and Diego’s head is in his hands, and Vanya is quiet. It feels all wrong, some twisted version of practice sessions at 7:00 a.m., right after breakfast. 

“I was thinking of having the service in the courtyard, under the oak tree? At sunset, maybe, just where Dad’s favorite spot was.” 

Reginald Hargreeves is dead. Diego groans into his hands and Allison looks worried but doesn’t say anything. Klaus takes another drag from his cigarette.

“Dad had a favorite spot?” Vanya asks. 

Luther opens his mouth to respond. 

The doorbell rings. Vanya gets up to get it. 

The house does not feel full with them all here. It feels just as lonely, cold and austere as before. Luther looks out the window. 

Vanya returns, and a man in a suit follows her. His hair is neatly combed, though the cuffs of the suit jacket are a little long. 

“He said it was a family matter,” Vanya says, breathy, feather-light, still as small as a child. 

“Hello,” The man says. Allison crosses her legs, and Klaus puts his cigarette out on the granite table beside the couch. 

“Klaus,” Luther says. The man eyes him, lips pursed, hand in one pocket of his trousers. Luther looks away. 

Reginald Hargreeves is dead. Luther found him. There is a strange man in the house, and his siblings have all grown up and left him behind. 

“I knew you probably wouldn’t recognize me.”

“Excuse me?” Allison asks. Her forehead is wrinkled in confusion. 

Klaus suddenly sits up very, very, very straight. 

“Number Five.” Is all he says. The man cocks his head towards them all, nods. 

“I go by Finnegan Davis now.”

Luther can feel his pulse in his fingers, and his knees feel weak. 

“Five?” Vanya asks, and Luther steps forward. 

It sort of makes sense. The man's swoop of dark hair, the green eyes, the calculating tilt of his head, the grim features. 

Behind him, Diego throws up into one of the ornate vases that Dad bought from Lisbon, and Vanya begins to cry. 

It has been 16 years, 4 months, and 14 days, and Reginald Hargreeves is dead. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Diego has a concussion. That's it. I only included it for dramatic effect, and have no idea how its gonna affect the next chapter. Yolo, I guess. 
> 
> ALSO  
> This is an entire mess that ended up not really being about a band and just a poorly written version of the real show. So sorry. I'm tragically aware of this.
> 
> ALSO (again)  
> I have no experience in writing five. At all. I have literally never done it. Just to let you know. About his name, I just chose one that started with an F that wasn't Feivel.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They’re getting better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Final chapter!

Vanya’s chest might legitimately explode. 

She feels like it will. She can feel her heart pounding, her fingers are throbbing with her pulse, and there is a scream building in the back of her throat. 

She’s crying because she’s  _ angry. _ Because this absolute asshole decided to get a nice laugh out of their trauma, because he’s a liar, because he’s standing there, smirk pasted on his face. 

“Excuse me,” she says and does not wipe away the tears. They are proof and anger and sadness and this fucker in front of her deserves every single one of them. “What the fuck?”

Finnegan Davis or whatever’s smirk falls a little. 

“Pardon?” He says, and Vanya wants to punch him in the face. She feels 17 again, violin switched out for the guitar, screaming into a mic, made of anger and fire, and lucky strike cigarettes. 

“Who the fuck are you?” She asks, and she’s staring at this stranger so hard her eyes are starting to bug out. Her violin case is heavy in her hands. 

“It’s him,” Klaus whispers before the man can. “Vanya.” 

She does not believe him. Klaus always lies, after all, and always will. 

She does not believe him. She is in a house filled with liars and assholes and ghosts, and her jaw is beginning to ache from clenching her teeth. 

“Shut up. You’re wrong. Five is dead, just like Ben and-” She is still crying. Liars and assholes and ghosts. 

“Tell the truth. You  _ fucker, _ I don’t believe you,  _ god _ . Just-”

She can’t breathe, and her chest is exploding, knotted, aching. 

Liars, liars, liars. 

“Vanya,” the man says, and his head is cocked like he’s trying to figure out what's happening. 

“Liar,” she spits out, and the man shakes his head like she’s the most tragic thing in the world. 

“No.”

Vanya cries until she can’t, and it still doesn’t change the truth. 

They still call him Five, which is messed up in more ways than just one, but he doesn’t seem to mind. 

Delores, his wife, does, and so when she’s around, they switch to Finn, no matter how much it makes him a stranger. They have Sunday brunches, and they skype Allison in LA, and they start to heal. 

“Hey,” Luther says to Vanya as she’s waiting for a cab home from Diego and Klaus’s place where they just had dinner. “Need a ride?”

Vanya smiles. Nods. Luther smiles and nods back, and no matter how awkward it should feel, it just feels good instead. 

(To be noticed. To be smiled out. To be included.) 

“How’s school?” she asks because Luther is terribly proud of being on his way to getting his degree in material engineering. 

Luther smiles, and Vanya remembers how young he has always looked. How  _ boyish. _

“It’s great,” he says. Opens the car door for Vanya and then piles in himself. “I was talking with Helen, one of my classmates and it was crazy. There’s just so much to  _ learn _ and it’s just-” He breaks off, looking sheepish.

“Sorry, you don’t want to hear me nerd out or whatever Diego calls it.” 

Vanya shakes her head. Turns the heat on, cause it’s  _ cold. _

“Nah. Keep going.”

Diego swings by her apartment on Tuesdays after Vanya’s lessons with his electric bass, and they just mess around, make up silly songs, and replay their old ones. 

“Hey,” Diego says as he steps into her apartment. He’s got a key now, so Vanya doesn’t even need to let him in, but he always seems to forget it. “I was at the coffee shop getting a couple of muffins and I saw something on the bulletin.” 

“What?” she asks, sifting through sheet music for her students. Angela, the prodigy, always leaves her frazzled. 

“Look,” he says, shoving the flyer in her face. His grin is kilowatt, bigger than the moon. “We got a mother fucking  _ fan club. _ ” 

Vanya looks. They do. 

“Oh my god,” she whispers, and she’s mortified, cause the flyer is a photo of the Prime 8s album cover where both her and Diego look all silly, mouths turned down, hair dyed black, 17 years old and rough around the edges. 

Diego is still smiling and unbuckles the latches of his bass’s case. 

“We should go,” he says, walking down to the closet in the hall to retrieve the amp. “You know, just like, surprise them. They’re all in love with both of us. Apparently we’re a staple in the lesbian music scene.”

Vanya snorts. 

“How do you know all this?” she asks, and Diego just grins, silly. He’s nicer now, or maybe she just got used to it. 

He snorts back. Shrugs. 

“Did some research,” he says, and then begins to play the bass line for All Star by Smash Mouth, and all Vanya can do is laugh. 

Allison calls at least once a week. Whenever. There was one time where she was in the middle of picking Claire up from school in her minivan that everyone makes fun of. It wasn’t much of a conversation, cause Allison was just screaming at everyone on the highway with Vanya listening to her, but it was funny. Gave her something to laugh about. 

“God,” Allison whispers over the phone on a night after recording. “Maybe I should retire. The album’s gonna suck.”

Vanya switches the phone from one ear to the other. Fills a glass with water, thinks about what to say. 

“Don’t. Retire, I mean.”   
“It’s terrible, V.”

Vanya softens her voice. Takes a sip of water. 

“No, it’s not. Nothing you write is bad.”

“Luther didn’t actually write the Golden Song.”

Vanya can’t help but laugh. 

“You were 15. Go to sleep, Allison. It’ll look better in the morning.”

It will. It always does. That’s what Grace used to say. 

“Love you, V.”

“Love you.”

Klaus wants to have a reunion concert. He blabs all to Vanya about it, and it honestly isn’t a bad idea. 

“Think about the money!” he wines, draped over her bed. “It’d be like 40,000 for each of us, probably more cause it’s a reunion. And you could play! Five, could too if he’s up for it. C’mon, Vanya.”

And he is right about the money. Concerts pay great, a lot better than any of the silly Prime 8s gigs did. Better than teaching violin lessons. 

“Maybe,” she says, and he beams so wide his dimples appear. 

“Maybe?” He asks, then frowns. “There’s no way to convince Allison, though. With the album and everything.” 

“She’d probably be up for it, actually. Diego’s the issue. Luther, maybe.” 

Klaus’s smile is back. 

“Nah, Luther’ll do it. Diego, too, probably, he’s got a soft spot for the both of us.” 

Vanya laughs. He’s right, weirdly enough. 

“And hey!” Klaus continues. “We can get costumes and do cool stuff with fire on the stage and maybe water, too. Like Rocky Horror, or something. And we could hire backup dancers and give out solo parts and get all interactive with the crowd and-”

Five sits down next to her, and he smells like ink. He’s got a cheap pink iPod in one hand and a mug of coffee in the other. A peanut-marshmallow sandwich is stuffed into the breast pocket of his pajamas, and his hair is sticking up. He must have spent the night here in the mansion. 

“Hey,” Vanya whispers, and she puts the sheet music back into her bag. 

“Hello,” he says back, and he holds out an earbud of the headphones attached to the iPod for her to take. “Here. It’s Paganini's Violin Concerto No. 4.” 

“Your favorite,” she hums, sticking the earbud into her ear. “I could play part of it for you if you wanted.”

He just hums back. Takes a sip of coffee, and then retrieves his sandwich out of his pocket. 

“What’s your favorite? From anyone. Mozart, Brahms, Vivaldi.” He splits the sandwich in half, hands part of it to Vanya. 

“Vivaldi. La Tempesta Di Mare.” 

Five hums again, and Vanya takes a bite of her half of the sandwich. 

“I missed you, you know,” she says. 

“I missed you too,” he says back.

Five plays La Tempesta Di Mare after that. 

Vanya visits Ben’s grave. 

It’s in the private cemetery, the one that Dad’s parents and grandparents and siblings and cousins are in.

She just stands there and stares at the headstone. Stares at the date, stares at the name. 

“It’s okay,” she says to it, even though she knows he can’t hear her. 

“I think we’re okay now. Getting there.” 

Vanya leaves the cemetery. Does not look back. 

In the car, she calls Allison and they cry about it together. The fact that Ben is buried next to people that he never met, that he is dead at all, that he never got to grow up like the rest of them. 

Vanya mentions that one of Dad's relatives was named Darthula Hader, and then they both laugh until their lungs hurt. 

They’re getting better. Healing. 

That’s all that matters. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow! Finally done! I had a terrific time writing this!  
> I hope you enjoyed.
> 
> P.S. Vanya and Five both liking classical music is something that I love! Just! Yes! Classical music!
> 
> P.P.S. Stay safe out there!

**Author's Note:**

> Luther: Guitar, singing(occasionally)  
> Diego: Bass, Guitar, drums (casually)  
> Allison: Lead singer  
> Klaus: Drums, Piano, Ukulele (that's for fun though)  
> Five: was planned to play bass, but he disappeared before the Academy made their debut  
> Ben: Piano, guitar  
> Vanya: Violin, guitar
> 
> Hoped you liked this!


End file.
